A little rusty, but I am trying to get back in the habit. I had a lot more written last night, however, I lost it as I was not as familiar with my new software as I needed to be! It's kinda glitchy, but free is hard to beat.
Start Fiction:
"A life of luxury," Ellen shouted. "That's what I deserve. My life has been horrible and it's time things work out for me for once!" she tripped over the carpet and ploughed face first in to the couch.
Stan crossed his legs and raised his glass to his lips. He had heard all of this before, seen all of this before. There was a time he felt she might be right, that she indeed deserved more, a fair shot at least. Then there was the period he found her utterly amusing. Now, well, now he knew her all too well; no sympathy, no compassion, just pity for her.
Ellen fought with the cushions, and gravity, as she tried to right herself. Grunting, cursing, she finally gave up and fell on to the floor. "Can I get a little help here?" she yelled at the ceiling.
Stan raised his glass once more, taking a long drink. "Would telling you that since you have, once again, gotten yourself in to this mess, that perhaps you should get yourself out be the sort of help you are looking for?" he said.
Ellen screamed in frustration. She began to flail about, her coordination completely shot, but her mouth worked fine. "I don't need a lecture, Stan," she said. "who the hell do you think you- where do you get off telling me- where do you get off acting like your better than me?"
Stan set his drink on the table. Lacing his fingers as he rested his hands on his lap, he waited. He wanted something new to come out of her filthy drunken mouth, her alcohol soaked neurons. There was no entertainment value from watching the same train wreck week after week. It was time to disembark from this expedition.
"Seriously, you asshole," she continued, "who the fuck do you think you are? You're no better than me. Sitting here moping about some chick you love when clearly she is out of your league." Ellen had magaged to roll herself on to her side, looking at Stan.
"Who do you think you are, Ellen?" Stan asked as hensat forward.
"Fuck you."
"No, seriously, who do you think you are? I mean, there must be some reason you think that a bitter middle aged alcoholic woman who constantly makes horrible decisions deserves what you proclaim to be rightfully yours!" Stan said as he eased himself back in to his chair.
Ellen just stared at him. He wasn't sure if she was mad, hurt or had no idea what he had said; but she was quiet.
"Fuck you," she said.
"No, Ellen," Stan said as he rose out of his chair, "you've fucked yourself."
End Fiction.
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